𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞 *✧･ﾟ:‧͙⁺˚*･༓* [𝖕𝖆𝖚𝖑 𝖑𝖆𝖍𝖔𝖙𝖊]

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴇɴᴛʏ-ᴏɴᴇ

As the day wanes in a rain-drenched town, the sunset begins its slow descent, painting the horizon with a palette of muted colours. The persistent drizzle softens the light, diffusing the sun's rays into a gentle glow that reflects off the slick cobblestone streets. Buildings, once stark against the daylight, now take on a subdued appearance, their edges softened by the rainfall. The air is filled with the fresh scent of rain mingled with the earthy aroma of wet foliage. The clouds, heavy with moisture, hang low, yet they part ever so slightly to allow the last few streaks of sunlight to escape, creating a dance of light and shadow that plays across the landscape.

Milly's eyes brim with tears, a silent testament to the turmoil within, as Paul's gentle and firm words attempt to assuage her self-imposed guilt.

"You don't need to do this," he says, his voice a soft growl that rumbles with the undercurrent of his otherness. "I'll heal."

But Milly, steadfast in her resolve, continues her ministrations, her hands moving with a care that speaks volumes of her devotion.

"I know, but I don't want them to get infected. The garage was dusty, so you might have gotten something stuck in it."

He knew that this wasn't the reason. He had seen her like this with Embry when he had phased. She would stay with him, brushing his short hair and sitting with him for hours on end when he couldn't control his phase. Despite his protests, Milly knew she needed to help people in any way she could, or she would feel useless. It was ingrained in her nature to offer support and care, even if it meant tending to the smallest wound or offering a listening ear. She couldn't bear the thought of standing by idly while others suffered. Maybe it was the faery blood in her that compelled her to be so nurturing and compassionate. Maybe it was the fact that her own mother never helped her when she needed it most, driving her to be the person she wished she had in her life.

Even though he knew it was unnecessary, he let her patch him up. He had learned that it was best to just let her be and process things the way she needed to. Trying to talk to her about how she was feeling before she had a chance to sort through her emotions on her own would only push her to shut down.

Paul, with his heightened senses, can smell the salt of her tears and can feel the warmth of her skin against his own healing flesh. He knows the weight of the unspoken words between them and the shared history that has led to this moment where every touch is a balm to both their souls.

In the quiet of the room, the only sounds are the soft whispers of cloth against skin and the occasional hitch of breath as Milly tries to hold back her sobs. Paul reaches out, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb wiping away the trails of her tears. I didn't mean to; she wanted to say. It wasn't my fault; she wanted to shout. I'm so sorry; she wanted to cry. But all she could manage was a whisper of his name. "P-Paul-"

"Don't apologise," he interrupted before she could stumble around a sentence. "I know you think you have to, but you don't. You didn't do anything wrong, and I know that, so I'm just telling you all of this so that... so that you can understand why I was so angry—why I was so out of control."